Linger
by LittleWhiteTie
Summary: Not wanting to leave Keith's side, Shiro looks for excuses to linger.


" _Give in," she commands, and Shiro's not strong enough to resist._

 _He tries to kill them all._

 _This time, he succeeds._

Shiro wakes with a sharp gasp. He claps his trembling hand over his mouth and presses down hard, barely able to stifle a sob. Tears pool around his eyes, spilling sideways down his temples. With a quiet sniffle, he uses the back of his wrist to wipe the evidence from sight. He can't let Keith or Krolia see him like this.

He pushes himself up to a seated position. It's a struggle with just one, shaky arm—his body is still weak, unsteady, too heavy—but he manages. Once he's upright, he takes in his surroundings, and discovers being seen by Keith or Krolia is a nonissue.

He's no longer curled up on the floor of the Black Lion's cockpit, bathed in its perpetual violet glow. Keith's not at the controls, glancing over at him from the pilot's seat; Krolia's not crouched over him with food and water at the ready. There's no wolf here, either—no lush fur brushing against his skin, no curious nose nudging at his cheek.

They're not here. No one is. There's no one and nothing around him. He's in the dark, and he's _alone_.

His stomach lurches; his heart plummets in free-fall. _No, no, no, no._ He can't be back here, back in the astral plane, trapped here for the rest of time. Forever a captive, lost in absolute emptiness and total isolation. He can't do this again. Not again. Not again. He _can't_.

Tears fall fresh, and he chokes on a new sob. His head spins as he hyperventilates, caught in the throes of panic. He shrinks, drawing his knees in against his too-tight chest, and squeezes his eyes shut.

He stays like that until the faintest of sounds reaches his ears. _Sound._ That doesn't belong here.

Over the pounding of his shipwreck heart, a high pitch, arrhythmic pace, and unique timbre weave together, forming a whisper of something familiar. Someone typing on a holo-keyboard.

The noise emanates from somewhere behind him. He cracks his eyes back open and gets to his feet, teetering precariously as his newly shifted centre of gravity sets him off balance. Steadying himself, he looks around further.

When he cranes his neck to look over his right shoulder, he finds a subtle sliver of warm, yellow light. It gives hints of edges to objects in the— bedroom.

He's in a bedroom. He's not _there._

He stumbles forward until he reaches the wall, sweeping his hand over its smooth surface. Eventually, his clumsy fingers press down on a circular light switch, flooding the room with soft white light.

The L-shaped room is quaint, cabin-like, enclosed in glossy, orange-hued wood. Squat, compact furniture matches the walls, accented with bands of speckled viridian. Pale sheets cascade from the bed he must have fallen off of at some point, pooling into a mess on the floor.

There's an en-suite bathroom at the other end of the room, a sink and mirror visible through the open door. He makes his way there, flicking on the lights, and walks straight past the mirror without a glance. He sinks down onto the ledge of the square-shaped tub and sits there for a small eternity as he waits, and waits, and waits for his heart to slow and his breaths to even out. Only then does he venture back to look at his reflection.

The shock of ghost-white hair strikes him first. Cognitively, he'd known about the change—he'd been told of it in words, and the flutter of pale lashes at the ceiling of his vision had confirmed it—but it throws him off all the same. He runs his fingers through his bangs. Vaguely, he wonders if it was light that had seeped into each strand, or darkness that had been leached out.

The hair is strange, different, but not devastating. The metal shoulder is another story. The metal shoulder, and what doesn't extend beyond it.

He's seen the thing, of course, but not from this angle, not from where he can see the guts of its wicked machinery at the site the rest of the arm had been sliced off. He's not sure how much of the remaining metal covers flesh and how much has replaced it entirely, but either way, what's left behind is bulky, ugly, unbalanced. The skin around the shoulder is ruined, too: angry pink streaks peek out from the gap between foreign metal and the edge of where the sleeve of his suit had burst. He averts his eyes, not ready to see any further.

He brings his gaze back up to his face. His complexion is far too pale to be healthy, though that's hardly unexpected for a living corpse. His focal point shifts to his eyes, finding bags and bruise-purple crescents beneath his lower lashes. That's no surprise, either; even though he spends most of his time unconscious, no amount of sleep seems to alleviate his intense fatigue. Allura assures him it will get better, so long as he listens to his body and gets sufficient rest, but it will take time.

Overall, his features add up to something near unrecognizable from the person who left for Kerberos. It's not pretty, but it's not like he had been expecting any different. What's important now is that his eyes and nose aren't too red, his skin isn't blotchy, and his eyelids aren't too swollen. It's not immediately obvious that he was crying.

After he wets a soft washcloth and runs it over his face, rubbing away saline tears and cold sweat, he walks out of the bathroom and opens the other door.

He steps out into a narrow hallway, lined with evenly spaced doors. The door at the end of the hallway on his left bears a mat at its sill and a closet adjacent; it must lead outside. He heads right, instead—the electronic clicking is coming from that direction.

He chases the sound until he finds himself in a common area. Straight ahead is a small kitchen; to its left a dining space with sleek, ebony chairs tucked around a matching table. In front of that, closest to him, is a sitting area. Large, grey-blue couches form three sides of a square.

Unruly, dark hair with a familiar cowlick peeks over the back of the nearest couch, perched behind a holo-screen. The warmest relief floods Shiro's entire being.

The typing pauses, and the screen disappears. Keith turns around to face him, kneeling on the seat of the couch and propping himself up with his forearms. "Shiro," he says. "How're you feeling?"

"Not bad," Shiro says. _Now that you're here_.

"Glad to hear it," Keith says, with a small but genuine smile. He gestures around them. "We lucked out; finally found an inhabited planet and got put up here. The others are out talking Coalition stuff with the locals, but we only just arrived. You haven't been asleep that long—it's only been a varga or so since you last woke. You've got to still be pretty tired."

There's no point in trying to deny it; since his resurrection, Shiro hasn't once been anything less than exhausted. Now that he's come down from his panic, he's completely drained. He gives a slight nod.

"You should go back to bed," Keith says. "Get some more sleep."

He's tired, but no. He can't go back to his room, not yet. He's not ready to be alone again. He needs an excuse to stay.

"I… need some water."

"There's a sink in the kitchen," Keith says, nodding in its direction. "Glasses are in the cupboard on the right, second shelf from the top."

After Shiro thanks him, Keith turns around and pulls his screen back up.

Shiro can't see Keith from the kitchen, so he finds the cupboard and fills one of the crystalline glasses with tap water as quickly as he can. He brings it over to the dining table. Once he can see Keith again, he lets out the breath he'd subconsciously been holding. He takes the seat positioned at a vantage point where Keith is directly in his line of vision.

Keith is immersed in whatever he's doing; he has that little crease in his brow he gets when he's deep in concentration. He's clearly busy, probably shouldn't be interrupted, but Shiro's self-control is lacking at the moment. He doesn't want their usual companionable silence. Right now, he just wants to hear Keith's voice.

"What are you working on?"

Keith pauses and looks up. "Report for Kolivan."

Shiro tilts his head. "Krolia didn't take care of that while we were travelling?" Krolia hadn't had much else to do, and she seems like a doer. The last he saw, she was wearing the same restless look in her eyes Keith gets when he sits too still, not actively working toward something.

"She finished most of it," Keith says. "I just have to fill in… a few details." Things Krolia hadn't been witness to. Like Haggar's clone project. Like when Shiro had tried in earnest to kill Keith, and damn near succeeded.

It hadn't been Shiro, but at the same time, it had. It was with this body, and he remembers every moment of it in nauseating detail. The awful lies he spat out, trying to break Keith in more than just flesh and bone. The way when, blade against blade, he'd taken advantage of gravity and pressed down with all his weight; the way Keith had pushed back with astonishing strength, but it hadn't quite been enough. The hiss and sickening smell as Shiro's pink plasma blade seared the skin of Keith's cheek, marring it forever. The desperate look in Keith's eyes; the crack in his voice as he pleaded with Shiro to stop.

He has to fight the urge to crumple and fold in on himself, the urge to throw up. He doesn't want to think about any longer, but still, he asks, "Can I help with the report?" He's desperate. _Please. Anything to stay here with you._

"I got it covered," Keith says. "Don't worry about it. Just go back to bed. You need to rest."

"I…" Shiro scrounges for an excuse not to go back. "Is there anything to eat?"

"Hunk left a few things in the pantry. Your appetite's back?"

No _._ "Yeah." And then he adds, "A little," so Keith's not expecting too much from him.

Keith brightens, the corners of his lips pulling up before he turns back to his screen.

Shiro drags out his sips of water for as long as possible before heading back to the kitchen. He opens the pantry doors, finding an assortment of containers in varying shapes and sizes. He sifts through the options, assessing how difficult it would be to open each one.

He picks out a tall, smooth jar, tightly sealed without any ridges in its sides or lid. The actual contents of the opaque container are a mystery, but the important thing is he won't be able to get it open. He takes it back to his seat at the table and gives it a token effort.

Keith lets him try for a little while. Keith is always ready to help, but he tries to give Shiro some semblance of independence where he can. Like letting him get his own food and water; like letting him sleep in his own room. It's something Shiro would normally appreciate, but at the moment, he's embarrassingly needy. All he wants right now is to be coddled, smothered, never left alone.

When it's clear Shiro's not going to get it open, Keith pushes away from his screen and comes over to the table. Shiro passes him the jar, casually angling his hand so it brushes against Keith's. He savours the fleeting moment of skin against skin: after a year of total isolation, trapped without a body, he's famished for touch.

Keith places the jar on the table in front of him, and Shiro quietly laments the loss of an opportunity for their fingers to brush again. Part of Shiro wants to ask Keith to get him a utensil to eat it with, just for another chance at a touch, but a glance inside the jar reveals a liquid with a smoothie-like consistency; no utensils are needed. He thanks Keith and watches wistfully as he returns to the couch.

He takes a sip of the fuchsia substance, and maybe his appetite isn't as lacking as he'd thought. It's good. _Really_ good. A bright burst of something sweet and tangy blooms over his taste buds, leaving a subtle after-note of what could pass as elderflower. He can't remember when he last ate something he really enjoyed. For the first time in a long time, he has to force himself to drink it slowly.

As he takes deliberately small, infrequent sips, he watches Keith work. Shiro's eyes rove over the features that are new to him—the broader shoulders, the subtle elongation of his heart-shaped face, and, of course, the angry burn striping his right cheek. He also takes note of constants that have been there from the start: the slight upturn of the tip of his nose, the fanning out of his dark lashes, the deep indigo of his irises, the stubborn set to his jaw.

Mostly, though, Shiro just takes in his warm presence, appreciating that he's _here_. He's missed him so, so much.

"You feeling okay?" Keith asks, when Shiro's been staring for too long.

"Y-yeah. Of course."

"Seriously, Shiro," Keith says. "Finish that and go back to bed before you fall asleep at the table."

Not yet. "I… need more water."

Keith frowns. "More?"

Shiro shrugs. He immediately regrets the gesture—the stiffness and weight of his right shoulder is too new, too raw.

"Okay. I can get it if you want."

"Please," Shiro says, quietly.

Keith gets up from the couch and brings Shiro's glass to the kitchen. When he returns, he sets it down in front of Shiro from across the table, yet again crushing Shiro's guilty desire to steal another touch.

Shiro's eyes follow Keith back to the couch as he returns to his report. Shiro continues to drink as slowly as possible, dread rising with every inch of his glass drained. He doesn't want to go back.

Eventually, though, he runs out smoothie and he runs out of water. He takes as long as he can with the dishes, but then he's out of excuses to stay. Dragging his feet, he makes his way out of the kitchen, back toward the hallway.

He stops at the couches, pausing for a beat. "Keith?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you sure you don't need any help?" he asks, in a last-ditch effort.

"Positive," Keith says.

It's not like Shiro wasn't expecting it, but disappointment wells up all the same. "…Okay," he whispers. Embarrassingly, pathetically, his eyes start to sting.

He turns to leave, but Keith says, "Shiro, wait."

Shiro slowly pivots to face him, keeping his focus on the crests of Keith's cheekbones instead of meeting his gaze straight on.

Keith dispels his screen and keyboard. "Come here."

Shiro swallows and does as he's told. Keith pats the plush seat cushion on his right, imploring Shiro to sit down. When he does, Keith scoots in closer.

Keith reaches for him and tips his face up, waiting until Shiro looks him directly in the eyes before he speaks. Voice soft, he asks, "What's wrong?"

"It's… nothing," Shiro says.

"Don't give me that."

"I—I just…" Shiro digs his nails into his palm, but it doesn't stop tears from building at the corners of his eyes.

"Hey," Keith murmurs. He slides his arms around Shiro, pulling him in against him. Shiro's heart thuds, loud and heavy, pulsing against his ribcage. He's alive. Solid. Real.

Shiro brings his cheek to rest against Keith's shoulder and lets out a shuddering breath. In the barest of whispers, he admits, "I don't want to be alone again."

Keith stiffens, before squeezing tighter. "I'm sorry," he breathes, voice tight with remorse. "I should've been paying more attention."

Shiro chokes on an almost-laugh. "Keith, it's not your job to read my mind and cater to my every whim."

"I wish I could," Keith says. "But I can't always. So tell me when you need something. Please."

"This isn't—I don't _need_ —"

"I'm not talking about survival, life or death stuff," Keith says. They both know he already has that covered. "I mean I want you to tell me when there's something— _anything_ —I can do to make you feel better. It doesn't matter how big, or small."

Shiro shakes his head, cheek rubbing against Keith's sharp clavicle. "You don't have to—"

"I _want_ to, okay?" Keith says, "I want to do whatever I can to help, and I'm not just being selfless. Anything that helps you will make me feel better, too. Because there's nothing in this universe more important to me than you."

Shiro collapses into him. The hot tears in his eyes slip loose, dripping onto Keith's shoulder—unbidden, but not as unwelcome as before.

Three words come back to him like a beacon, cutting through the swathes of dark memories under Haggar's influence. "What you said to me," Shiro says, "When we… when I almost… when you got that scar. You— you really meant it, didn't you."

Keith pulls back so Shiro can see his smile, honest and kind. "You know I always mean what I say."

"Yeah," Shiro whispers. "You do."

"I meant what I said about you needing sleep, too," Keith says. He rubs the tear tracks from Shiro's face with his thumb, then guides him to lie down, bringing Shiro's head to rest in his lap. "Get some rest, alright?"

With a soft sigh, Shiro lets his heavy eyelids fall closed. He's calmed by the sound of fingers tapping against keys, interrupted occasionally by a gentle touch. A press to his wrist, a stroke of his cheek, a brush of fingers through his hair. He falls asleep to sweet, subtle reminders that he's not alone, not anymore.


End file.
